Running might attract undue attention, so Marc walked briskly downhill, patting his pockets for change to make sure that he had enough for an early lunch or late breakfast. Even though, on his daily trips to the cinema, he passed the café whose owner had directed him towards the Dormitory Raquel, he’d never eaten there again because he’d discovered a little place run by an Italian family not far from the church. The food was much better and Livia – the owner’s teenaged daughter – had huge breasts.

Livia, her father, her grandmother and several customers lined up in front of the café, admiring the flames.

‘Marc,’ the elderly grandmother said, smiling brightly. ‘How’s your uncle today?’

Café Roma was frequented by locals, and the first time Marc went inside he’d mentioned that he was staying with a sick uncle, deliberately remaining vague about exactly where he lived. Marc wasn’t proud of the lie, but the old woman called him a little trooper and never missed an opportunity to overfill his plate or give him a free glass of her chocolate mousse.

Marc would happily have exchanged all of the mousse in Paris for a single smile from her well-endowed granddaughter, but all Livia ever did was slam down plates and scowl at Marc like he was something stuck on her shoe.

‘My uncle isn’t too bad today,’ Marc said, as he tried desperately to remember yesterday’s lie so that he didn’t repeat it. ‘I gave him a shave and helped him in the bath.’

‘Oh, aren’t you a darling?’ the old lady said, with her ripe Italian accent. ‘I’ve made a fresh batch of meatballs and spaghetti. Would you like to try?’

‘It’s not even eleven,’ the owner noted, but Marc didn’t mind at all. At first he’d been wary of anything beyond the basic soups and stews he’d lived on all his life at the orphanage, but all the food he’d been served in the Café Roma was good, and longstanding connections with local markets and wholesalers meant that the café remained well stocked despite the food shortages.

‘So what’s going on over the hill?’ Marc asked, pointing at the flames.

‘The surrender,’ the café owner explained. ‘Didn’t you know? The Germans will enter the city at noon.’

Marc nodded. ‘I heard that on on the radio last night. So why are the Germans still bombing?’

‘That’s you French, not the Germans,’ the old lady explained. ‘They’re letting the Boche have Paris, complete with all the bridges across the Seine, but even the French Command isn’t dopy enough to hand the Germans their ammunition factories.’

‘Ahhh,’ Marc said, as realisation dawned. ‘I was sleep—erm … I had my uncle in the bath, so I’ve not heard any news this morning. What else are they saying?’